


Trembling, I Listened

by Darkrivertempest



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bees, Drama, F/M, Minor Character Death, Prophetic Visions, Sexual Tension, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger has been given a gift - one that she desperately wants to return, thank you very much. If only it were that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiHnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiHnn/gifts).



> Written for Mihnn for the 2013 Summer Gift Exchange on Granger Enchanted. Her prompt will be listed at the end of the story.
> 
> This story is based on years of folklore and various scientific studies. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to my betas: Delphipsmith and Unseen1969 - you gals rock!
> 
> **Disclaimers:**
> 
> _The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story._
> 
> _Some dialogue taken from Buffy The Vampire Slayer, which belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Again, I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story._
> 
> _Some content taken from Early Edition, which belongs to CBS. Once more, I'm not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story._

  
_Trembling, I listened: the summer sun_

_Had the chill of snow;_

_For I knew she was telling the bees of one_

_Gone on the journey we all must go!_

~ John Greenleaf Whittier 1894

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was three years old the first time he heard a bee whisper in his ear.

_A brother is coming._

Though at the time he didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘brother’, Albus was truly excited to learn what such a thing entailed. Months later, he glimpsed Aberforth in the arms of his mother, while his father smiled with pride at the picture his family made. When the sunlight began to wane on his brother’s birthday, Albus’ father took his hand and walked with him through the fields of tall wild-grass and clover until they arrived at an open space that housed several large boxes.

“You must always tell the bees,” Percival explained. “You must tell the bees the significant events that occur within the family—births, deaths and marriages—or suffer the consequences when the bees become hurt by neglect.”

Albus watched as his father cast a Shield Charm and visited each hive, telling them of Aberforth’s birth. The lazy swarm that surrounded Percival hummed loudly, as if in congratulations, dancing with joy. When he had visited the entire colony, he ended the charm and returned to Albus, and both of them watched as the bees flitted here and there in the meadow. 

The ritual was repeated when his sister, Arianna, appeared a little over a year after Aberforth. As before, his father told the bee colony of their gift, ensuring that the Dumbledore family prospered in Mould-on-the-Wold.

~*~

Some years later, when he was nearing his tenth summer, Albus heard not one bee whispering, but a veritable horde, hissing and fretful.

_Beware the hedge!_

Unable to make any sense of their warning, for the only hedge he knew was the high hedge in the back garden that shielded their home from Muggles, Albus promptly dismissed the insects’ message and went about his business. The next day, Arianna was attacked by three Muggle boys—all of whom had been peering through a gap in the hedge and witnessed her performing uncontrolled magic. In retaliation, Percival cursed the wayward children who assaulted his precious daughter, and earned himself a stay in Azkaban. 

After his father went away, several weeks passed in nothing more than a blur to those left behind. Albus awoke one morning on a particularly gloomy day and had the idle thought that he should speak of the events to his father’s bees. He trekked through the fields of wild-grass and clover that drooped ever so slightly, only to arrive and find the colony silent. Not a bee buzzed; nary could a hum be heard. Carefully, Albus checked every hive. 

Empty. Save one.

Inside the last hive box were four frames of dead honeybees, the body of the queen curled squarely in the middle. Honey, once so sweet and luscious, was now rancid and congealed in the wax cells instead of oozing freely. 

Gone. All gone. All his father’s work, destroyed. 

In a fit of rage—and perhaps guilt, for not coming to tell the colony sooner—Albus unleashed a spell that engulfed the dead hives in flames, the smoke rising fast and high. He did not stay to watch the destruction; he wouldn’t have seen it through the tears in his eyes.

A year later, Albus’ mother Kendra was forced to move their family to Godric’s Hollow. No bees whispered to Albus here, and he was heartily glad of it. He did not want to hear their news, did not want foreknowledge of the further failures that were to befall his family. If he didn’t know, he couldn’t possibly be the cause of any misery that might occur. 

The first time he heard the word ‘consequences’, Albus had no context to give it life, to make it tangible to his young mind. However, as he grew, he became intimately acquainted with the term, in every possible shape, form and size. 

The last time a bee whispered to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was the day before he met Gellert Grindelwald—the day his life was forever altered. 

_Do not be led astray by the Death Stick Hallow!_

He could’ve claimed ignorance concerning the bee’s prophecy, but years later, as he begged Snape to end his life, Albus appreciated the true meaning of the word ‘consequences’.

* * *

The first time Hermione Jean Granger visited the Great Dixter house and gardens, she was four years old. She was accompanied by her aunt, Catherine, and Catherine’s annoying daughter Margery. Hermione disliked Margery particularly because, while Hermione was quite bright for her age, Margery was equally as dim—but no one seemed to notice, as Margery was an exceptional beauty. Though this wasn’t her most egregious fault, it did create an underlying tension between the cousins as they were frequently being compared to one another in mixed company. Thus ensued an enmity between the two, each one trying to overshadow the other in every way possible. 

On the day she visited the famed gardens, Hermione’s life altered course, and yet had it not been for Margery and her obnoxious behaviour, this might never have come to pass. Such simple things: greed and envy—at least to a child used to always getting her heart’s desire. It was greed that caused Margery to traipse through a dense bounty of lush _Cammasias quamash_ in the Front Meadow garden, the purplish-blue flowers of wild hyacinth crushed beneath the careless tread of a girl determined to reach the more ostentatious orchids on display.

Aunt Catherine had let go of Hermione’s hand to chase after Margery, commanding her to stop in petulant tones. Hermione quietly followed the path her cousin had created; as she went, she tried to coax the flattened flowers to a more upright position, hoping they wouldn’t wither and die. As she stroked each petal and stem, the hyacinth responded to her touch, as if they were cognisant of her desire to see them thrive, arching their blooms and leaves against the brush of her hands, nuzzling her fingers. 

A smile of pure delight curled her mouth. “Pretty flowers,” she cooed quietly. She glanced after Margery, who had knocked down the stems of several orchids in her eagerness to reach the tallest and most colourful blossom. “You don’t show off, like those do.” Another look and her haggard-looking aunt was trying to pry her now-screaming cousin’s fingers from a young oak sapling.

Margery refused to budge, and the swaying of the tree loosened a small hive of honey bees from its highest branches. The nest plummeted to the ground where it shattered, breaking apart to free a swarm of angry insects which promptly attacked. Margery and Aunt Catherine screamed and ran, flinging their hands over their heads in a bid to stave off the invasion. Hermione sat calmly with her flowers and watched her relatives’ antics, giggling when Margery tripped and fell into a pond, emerging covered in green scum. 

It must have seemed odd to a passing stranger, but Hermione had no fear of the bees. She simply sat cross-legged in her lavender and pale yellow dress, enjoying the slight breeze that drifted through her frizzy hair, letting her fingers play with the flowers she had recently rescued. The droning buzz that had accompanied the swarm died down once the threat was vanquished. A substantial mass was still circling in agitation about the broken hive, but the majority of the bees flew off in different directions, a few even coming to perch on Hermione’s knee.

And that’s when she heard the softest of whispers, a tiny buzz that tickled the fine hairs on the inside of her ear.

_The brightest witch of her age, come to visit us!_

Her eyes widened in curiosity. “I-I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured. “Who’s a witch?” So far as she knew, witches were ugly old ladies who kidnapped children or cast evil spells on princesses.

Hoping for an answer to her question, Hermione remained rooted to the spot, even when her aunt appeared from the corner of the manor house and called to her, demanding her presence. But the bees were silent and eventually the two that were grooming themselves on her knee took to the air. A moment later, she was jerked to her feet by a tight grip on her arm and the haze of anticipation dissipated as she was rudely pushed along the gravel path by Aunt Catherine, a sodden and foul-smelling Margery trailing behind them. 

Even the tongue-lashing she received upon returning home whilst her aunt described their adventures to her parents did nothing to douse the fervent curiosity that had been aroused within her mind and heart. What did the bee mean by ‘brightest witch of her age’? Why hadn’t the bees said something to her before? Would they talk to her again? She had tried to tell her parents what the bee had said after Aunt Catherine had left, but they had only laughed, telling her, “What an imagination you have!” 

In the years that followed, she found and embraced her magic, absorbing all the information she could that would enhance her abilities, whether at Hogwart’s or while living in the Muggle world during the summers. The bees’ greeting was relegated to the back of her mind, lost to that evanescent space where childhood memories linger then eventually fade away.

It wasn’t until her stay at Shell Cottage with Ron and Harry, after the terrible events at Malfoy Manor, that the memory was resurrected with a vengeance. That first night, Harry had locked himself in his room, brooding and planning their mission to break into Gringotts. Ron and Bill were in the small garden, helping Fleur tend the meagre vegetable patch.

Hermione, being the practical and pragmatic person that she was, would never have ascribed her intuition to flights of fancy. However, that evening she was drawn to the high dunes that were topped with sea oat grass, unable to resist the tug behind her navel. Barefoot, she followed an invisible line to a sparse sandy area, where a few stalks of grass waved lazily in the breeze.

She waited.

A seagull cried overhead, hovering on the warm updraft. She shielded her eyes and scanned the horizon, seeing nothing of note save the surf crashing upon the sand and slipping back out to sea. She waited ten minutes or so, then shrugged, giving it up for naught. As she rose to her feet and turned to make her way back to the cottage, however, a lone bumblebee landed on her upraised hand and a barely perceptible vibration hummed along her skin.

_Free the White Dragon. The end is near!_

The words carried on the breath of the wind were faint, fleeting. Hermione’s eyes widened as the long-ago memory filled her mind. She smiled tremulously, tears fringing her lashes. 

The bee groomed and frisked its head with its front legs, as if content to wait.

She sniffed and cleared her throat. “Thank you, _Bombus_. I’d call you by your proper name, but sadly, I’m lacking when it comes to classification of your species and subgenus.”

A twitch of its wings suggested that the bee was not impressed.

She couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I promise to free the White Dragon, then, whatever that may be.”

The bee wriggled on her hand as if agitated. Minute vibrations of its abdomen sent a shiver of apprehension through Hermione’s body. The fear and frustration that had been her constant companion these past few weeks built to a crescendo, and she tried to stifle her hiccoughing sobs to no avail.

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what you want!” she cried. “We’ve been on the run for months, only to be captured by the Snatchers and that foul beast Greyback. Then I’m tortured and the only reason we escaped is because Dobby rescued us and died in the process, and I—”

The bee lifted itself from her palm, buzzed a moment, then flew high into the air and vanished into the forest bordering the shoreline. 

Hermione scrubbed at her eyes, her mind confused. Why had the bee left? She felt sure it had had more to tell her. Had her anxiety produce pheromones that overwhelmed it? Even had she wanted to, she didn’t have the wherewithal to apologize to a bee for irritating it, and besides, the little creature was long gone. Unable to face the others for the time being, she sank to the ground and stared out at the ocean, her toes digging into the sun-warmed sand. Things would make sense soon.

They had to.

* * *

Four years later, the Final Battle won—and a white dragon having played a part in their victory—found Hermione Granger sitting in the office of Patrick Gaskins, Partner and Head of Property for Kitsons Solicitors, LLP—or so attested the sign that hung crookedly on his door. She had received an owl from the law firm requesting her presence on the last day of June, which she thought odd considering it was the anniversary of Dumbledore’s death. In fact, she would be attending a service with Harry and her other friends that very afternoon. 

Ron was waiting for her in the reception area, having been informed, politely but firmly, that he was not to be privy to the conversation between Hermione and the solicitor. Of course he was annoyed at the exclusion, but she had long lived with Ron’s moods and insecurities and soothed him by promising that she would tell him everything once they arrived at Hogwarts for the memorial. As expected, he grumbled and muttered petulantly under his breath for the better part of an hour, so Hermione was more than happy to leave him with the tray of tea and biscuits that the firm made available for their clients in the rather sumptuous waiting room.

When she entered his office, Gaskins rose to greet her, smiled politely, then sat down in a high-backed leather chair, the creaking of the material giving away the fact that the chair was new. “Thank you for coming, Miss Granger.”

She returned the smile with a nod. “Your message said it was important.”

“Yes, quite important. It pertains to the last execution of one particular Will.” Gaskins withdrew a thick file from a drawer on his left. “It’s a rather interesting gift.”

Hermione frowned. She tried to recall whether she had any relative that might have passed away recently, one that she might have been particularly close to, only to conclude that the last person in her family to die had been her uncle on her father’s side—a man she barely knew, and eighteen months ago at that. Who would have left her something? She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing on the side, contemplating the possibilities.

“You are familiar with one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, correct?”

Startled, Hermione nodded. “Yes, of course. He was the Headmaster during the majority of my years at Hogwarts.”

“Good, good. Since you were acquainted with Professor Dumbledore, you will, no doubt, not be surprised at the length, varied requests and peculiarities of his Will.” Gaskins’ mouth quirked into a lop-sided grin.

“Not surprised at all.” She envisioned a lifetime supply of Cockroach Clusters being delivered to orphanages around England. A sudden thought occurred to her. “Is that why Molly Weasley received a house-full of knitting patterns last year, and why Harry Potter was given Professor Dumbledore’s journal this past January?”

Gaskins arched a brow. “I am not at liberty to discuss other client dealings, but if I were, I would imply that you have the right of it.”

“But I thought Rufus Scrimgeour was executor of Professor Dumbledore’s Will.” How could she forget being sat down at the Burrow just before Bill’s wedding and given the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ by the weary, taciturn Minister? “In fact, he delayed releasing the bequests for over a month.”

“Ah, yes,” Gaskins said, shifting uncomfortably. “You must understand, Miss Granger, that certain provisions were put in place in the event of a, erm, ‘questionable’ death in regards to Professor Dumbledore. There are three Wills that I am aware of—the one executed by Minister Scrimgeour, the one currently with our law firm and one that was handled by a private solicitor in Cardiff, Wales. We were not privileged to know the contents of that particular Will, but our firm was informed that execution of it was completed this past January. To my knowledge, none of the Wills negate or conflict with the others, and the gifts were specific to each. You should have no fear that your gift will be revoked.”

Hermione was stunned. Just thinking of all the legalities, the morass of tangled laws that had to be navigated, let alone the Muggle laws of inheritance, made her head spin. “I can scarcely imagine what else he left me,” she murmured.

Gaskins opened the file and removed an ancient-looking parchment, complete with red wax seals in various places, the imprint of a fuzzy bumblebee clearly stamped into each one. “May I?” he asked, indicating the document. At her nod, he cleared his throat and began.

_“I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, being of sound mind and judgment this 10th day of September, in the year 1991, declare that the proper law of this, my Will, shall be the law of England and Wales. I appoint the firm of Kitsons Solicitors, LLP, to be the Executor and Trustee of this my Will. Upon dispersion of my remaining properties, trusts, and charitable legacies, I bequeath the following {free of inheritance tax and free of mortgage and charge}:_

_1.1: All my interest in the property known as The Old School in Arlington, East Sussex to my former pupil, Hermione Jean Granger._

_1.2: My Executors shall hold my estate in trust for four years from the date of my death and then complete the bequest, in hopes that Hermione Jean Granger will at that time have use for the estate and the provisions therein.”_

When Gaskins didn’t expound on what those provisions might be, Hermione was too flabbergasted to ask what they entailed. A house and property… for her? And, according to the date of the Will, Dumbledore had designated the ‘gift’ to her just after she had started Hogwarts. Why? For what purpose? 

“I take it, Miss Granger, that this gift was unexpected?” Gaskins asked, breaking through her haze.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I-I had no idea…”

Gaskins passed a thick envelope across the desk, the paper finely crafted, creamy and obviously expensive. “Here are further instructions; they are for your eyes only.”

She took the packet, gripping it tightly to still the trembling in her fingers. “Thank you, Mr. Gaskins. Is that all?”

He peered at her intently. “You are more than welcome to sell the property, Miss Granger, if you think you will have no use for it. After all, it’s quite a lucrative plot, valued at £445,000. I’m sure we would have no trouble marketing the property.”

Her eyes widened at the figure. “£445,000?” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. If she sold the property, the money would allow her and Ron to marry without having to scrape and skim for years afterwards. However, this wasn’t the time for snap decisions, especially when she hadn’t even seen the place. “I’ll think about it,” she said, standing.

Gaskins shook her hand, a bit of avarice glinting in his gaze. “Yes, do let me know.”

Disconcerted, she left the office quickly, barely stopping to collect Ron on her way out the door.

* * *

Hermione stood at the end of the no-through gravel road, staring at the modest house surrounded by hedges of every size, shape and colour. Off to her right, rolling meadows faded into a dense forest which climbed into hills that dotted the landscape. It was listed as a detached period property, and detached it certainly was—the nearest neighbour was kilometres away. Probably wise if, as according to Dumbledore’s letter, it used to be part of the estate where he, his brother and sister were born. 

For all its weight, the actual letter within the packet was a single sheaf of parchment, consisting mostly of instructions in Dumbledore’s long-flowing script. He also alluded as to the reason he had chosen to bestow the property upon her, which sent shivers up her spine, even on a hot and humid day.

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_It has recently come to my attention that you are in possession of a most precious and rare gift: the language of bees. I observed this phenomenon just after your sorting, wherein a small number of bees tended to fly about your person, yet you did nothing to dissuade their interest in you. I’m sure you are familiar with Karl von Frisch’s work in discovering their second form of communication—dance—but their first is only audible to a select group of individuals, you being one of them. As surely as I know that Harry’s future lies down a certain path, so does yours as well, one that may very well divide you from loved ones. This talent is not for the faint of heart, Miss Granger—there will be days where you long for rest and are too weary to carry the burden, but carry it you must. I can give you no advice save this: what lies behind you and what lies before you are tiny matters compared to what lies within you. Use this house and surrounding lands to once more bring life to the region, as the joy my family knew in better days is sorely missed._

_Remember, time is always moving._

_Yours with greatest respect,  
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

_P.S. ~ The other documents entail the use and locations for the keys included. Do enjoy yourself._

Along with the letter had come several skeleton keys that fit a myriad of locks within the house as well as the greenhouse in the rear of the massive garden. There was also a lone brass key that had the emblem of a bumblebee on its bow or grasp—this key, the additional documents had said, was to be used only if she decided to keep the property, as it would only fit a warded lock that would be revealed to the proper owner. 

The house was fronted by a wooden picket fence, with roses, ivy and other climbing flowers dripping over the edges. At one end, an abundance of pale pink and white hydrangeas swayed with the breeze, their scent swirling lazily around Hermione, making her smile. 

_Welcome home! We have missed you._

Hermione went very still, her eyes darting everywhere, searching for the source of the susurration of minuscule voices. Her gaze skimmed over the hedges, finally spotting a few bees making lazy circles while visiting every bloom on the hydrangea bush. Her last interaction with a bee had been confusing—and eerie, if she were honest. How had they known about the white dragon chained in the near-bottomless depths of Gringotts? Or that it had a part to play in the end that had loomed over the horizon? Surely they didn’t know the future. They were just insects… right? 

Shaking her head at such fanciful notions, she approached the bees slowly so as not to disturb their work. It was early July, the weather warm and a bit on the stifling side, so she had worn Muggle blue jeans and a gauzy cotton blouse with a blue and peach confetti pattern printed on it. The closer she came to the hydrangea, the more bees hovered around her, clearly interested in the colours on the shirt. She raised one hand, palm up, and watched as several bees landed to inspect her skin.

And suddenly, she was bombarded with voices.

_The red male’s time is at an end._

_Tragedy will befall the land across the ocean!_

_His guitar gently sleeps._

_The Chosen’s first will be a boy!_

_A princess that loves others will bloom for the Chrysanthemum Throne!_

Hermione had to close her eyes and consciously steady her breathing to avoid yielding to the outright panic that coursed through her veins—too many sounds, too many voices, overwhelming her senses. The bees could smell the fear, feel the tension in her limbs, and a cacophony of angry buzzing filled the air, setting her teeth on edge. Eyes squeezed shut, she felt the insects swooping around her like a flock of tiny starlings, until gradually, as she calmed herself, things became quiet.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes and looked around. All the bees had disappeared from the garden. She muffled a hysterical sob and backed away, down the gravel path. Dumbledore might have considered her ‘gift’ rare and precious, but at the moment, she wanted nothing to do with it. Once she reached the road, she Disapparated back to the Burrow.

* * *

“Hey, you okay?”

Hermione sat underneath an apple tree in the orchard at the Burrow, legs pulled up to her chest and chin resting atop her knees, idly watching the garden gnomes tackling each other in a bid to gather the Red Gravenstein apples that were starting to fall from the trees. She barely registered the fact that her best friend had sat down next to her. 

“Harry, when you heard the prophecy surrounding you and Voldemort… did you believe it? I mean, I know you did, eventually. But at first?”

Harry budged up next to her and shrugged. “I wasn’t really given much of a choice, to be honest. When Hagrid showed up on my eleventh birthday and told me I was a wizard, I thought he was a complete nutter. Thought he’d escaped from a mental asylum. Told him I was quite sure I wasn’t a wizard, he had the wrong person, and that he’d better leave, or Uncle Vernon would go round the bend. I don’t think I actually believed any of it until we were all Sorted. Then it hit me in the middle of the night and I couldn’t sleep a wink.” He smiled to himself. “I talked to Hedwig all night, trying to convince myself it was real.”

Hermione smiled and nudged his shoulder. “I’d have thought talking millinery would’ve been empirical proof of a person losing their mind.”

“It’s a bit daft, isn’t it?” Harry mused, laughing. “Leaving our fate up to a manky old hat.” His laughter faded when he glimpsed Hermione’s expression. “But that’s not why you asked me, is it?”

She sighed heavily and shook her head. “Did you know I could talk to bees? Or rather, bees can talk to me?”

He stared. “Bees talk?”

“Apparently. Although I don’t really think one could call it speech. It’s more like cryptic sentences every once in a great while, followed by long periods of silence.”

“Sounds like they’re the life of the party.”

She snorted. “Well, bees have been shown to be anti-social and less likely to fly when they’ve drunk alcohol. Some have even become so inebriated that they can’t do anything other than lie down on their backs with their legs in the air.”

“Only you would know that,” Harry said with a laugh. “So go on then, tell me what they’ve said to you.”

Her expression grew pensive. She’d tried to blot out the information she’d learned from her trip to Sussex, but like a bad memory, it refused to be erased. “Ginny’s pregnant.”

Harry’s brows rose into his hairline. “How did you…” He and Ginny had just been married in May, and no one had suspected a thing. He turned away and focused on the rock wall edging the orchard. “We just found out—”

“A week ago.” At Harry’s incredulous look, she sighed. “That’s when I went to look over the property Professor Dumbledore left me. Want to know the sex?”

“Um, sure?” Harry gave her a wan smile, his unease clear. 

“The first will be a boy.”

“First?” he said faintly. Harry was evidently having difficulty processing Hermione’s new ‘talent’. “Did the bees tell you this?”

She nodded. “You have to sift through the information—some of it is very clear, even mentioning dates and names. Other times you have to decipher it, determine if it’s meant to be literal or figurative. And there’s no specific pattern to the time frame for the occurrences—some of the information could be about past events, or things that will happen the next day… or in a few months, or maybe even years.”

“How long have you been talking to them?”

“Since I was four,” she murmured, plucking a purple clover bloom and twirling it. “They told me I was the brightest witch of my age. I didn’t know what they meant, of course. Not until almost a decade later.”

“Have they told you anything… horrible?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, just as she had on that day in Sussex. “Several things. The one that keeps repeating in my head is, ‘The red male’s time is at an end’.” After letting out a pent-up breath, she opened her eyes and glanced at Harry.

“You don’t think they were talking about…”

“I don’t know. We both know there are a lot of ‘red males’ around here. Then again, it could be someone neither of us has any prior knowledge of. Just…” She laid a hand on Harry’s arm and squeezed tightly. “I know you’re Ron’s Auror partner; don’t let him bungle his way into a situation he can’t handle.” 

Harry placed his hand over hers and gripped it just as fiercely. “I promise. Have to get him to his stag party next month, don’t I?”

She tried to return Harry’s infectious smile, truly she did. But in the end, it didn’t matter.

* * *

Hermione stood numbly, her gaze unseeing, as Ron’s casket was lowered into the ground. No tears filled her eyes, no sobs wracked her frame—she had grieved long before this moment. At one point, she heard Molly’s voice, bitter and uncomprehending, wailing that Hermione was an unfeeling, cold-hearted wench who had played with her son’s affections. She heard Harry and Ginny both try to silence the grieving woman, but she was too distraught and would not be swayed. When a stray Stinging Hex grazed Hermione’s arm, it finally forced her to react. Her own wand raised in defence, she backed away from the small cemetery, heedless of the voices of her friends calling her name. At the entrance to the graveyard, she Apparated to the house in Sussex, knowing it was only a matter of time before she heard those wretched whispers again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains material that may be a bit triggery (miscarriage). If that upsets you, I suggest reading elsewhere.

The first time Draco Malfoy realised that there was something ‘different’ about his pure-blood family was when he was five years old and a relative from his mother’s side of the family paid them a visit. 

Aunt Andromeda was nice enough, he supposed, but his father watched her like a goshawk focused on its prey. His mother—who was just as tense and wary, yet her gaze held a softness that Lucius’ did not—barely said a word, only thinning her lips occasionally in response to something her sister said. Aunt Andromeda turned her attention to Draco frequently, whispering something under her breath to his mother, ceasing her scrutiny at an impatient noise from Lucius.

Draco was playing with a beginner’s Potions set at the time, so he was removed enough from the trio that he only caught snippets of their conversation. Most of what they said made no impact on him, not then. However, a few words he overheard Aunt Andromeda say left a lasting impression.

_Inbreeding... genetic instability... mutations... infertility… madness..._

Though he was only five, Draco was quite clever, if he did say so himself. He was able to read and comprehend by age three and a half, so he understood the majority of the hushed whispers. Upon hearing the word ‘madness’, Draco started and accidently spilled too many dried nettles into his boil cure potion, creating a vile smell that caused the adults to drop their discussion and turn their attention to him. His father sneered; his mother tutted and petted his hair; Aunt Andromeda studied him intently, her brows furrowing in confusion after a lengthy perusal. Draco had an inkling that she might be looking for signs of madness in him, but since he was his father’s son, he wouldn’t deign to think any of that rubbish applied to him, a Malfoy. 

That had been the last time he’d seen Aunt Andromeda until after he had left Hogwarts and the Dark Lord had been destroyed for the second time. When he glimpsed his aunt several months after the Final Battle, it took him a few moments to discern that it was the same woman he’d seen when he was five. He was in Slug & Jigger’s one afternoon to purchase some _Oenothera biennis_ for his mother when he spied a haggard-looking older witch running her fingers over dark brown bottles of dried belladonna berries. On further study, he recognised the piercing eyes and high cheekbones that were a trademark of his mother and her sisters—Aunt Andromeda. But that was all that was recognisable about her. 

Gone was her long brown hair that had been a shade lighter than Aunt Bella’s. Now it was shorn close to her head, shot through with wide streaks of grey. Though her eyes were still dark and intense, they were empty, giving a hollow look to the face of the witch who had vibrated with power so long ago. Of course Draco knew that her daughter and husband had perished, Tonks at Bella’s own hand, so it was no wonder that grief clung to her like sticky Acromantula webbing. 

Lucius had always lambasted Andromeda and her marriage to a Muggle-born, seizing any possible chance he could to needle Narcissa with it. She would nod, give Lucius a thin smile, then call for a house-elf to fetch him a tumbler of Ogden’s Best. Draco had often observed his mother’s expert handling of his father, her quiet way of manipulating him into thinking that her desires were actually his idea in the first place. If his mother had no opinion on a topic, she would simply agree with Lucius and usually that was the end of said topic. If his father droned on and on about something that bored her, yet she didn’t want to interfere, she would ply him with alcohol so that his mouth would spend less time moving and more in sipping, and he would sooner take himself off to bed. This was her preferred approach when Lucius derided Andromeda. And though Draco adhered to his father’s ideology about tying one’s future to a lowly Muggle-born, he knew that his mother missed her sister. He wagered, in fact, that she missed both of her sisters more than she let on, being almost as sly as his father about controlling deep emotions. 

Which was why, at the time, in Slug & Jiggers, Draco found himself contemplating the unthinkable: actually speaking to his aunt after she’d been disowned by her entire family. 

He took a few steps in her direction but stopped abruptly when Andromeda slowly turned and pinned him with a cold stare. For a brief moment, Draco actually feared his aunt would hurl a curse at him, his paranoia a product of having been tutored at Aunt Bella’s knee for far too long. But Andromeda said nothing, only giving him a lengthy perusal which ended in a smug look and a snort. She then took one of the brown bottles, turned and made her way to the front of the shop. 

When Draco arrived back at Malfoy Manor, he didn’t tell his mother about catching a glimpse of Andromeda. It was better, he told himself, thinking that she was beyond their family’s reach, especially Lucius. Better to let the dead remain dead, in his opinion. With all the hurts and tragedies in the past year alone, there was no point in flaying open old wounds. Draco supposed that literally looking in the mouth of madness, as he had done, fundamentally changed a person. Had he been younger and encountered Andromeda on the street, he wouldn’t have thought twice about flinging a hex at her back. Now, he merely wanted to be left alone and go about his life.

It didn’t occur to Draco, though perhaps it should have, that his father might have other plans.

* * *

Draco watched his wife stroll along the veranda in a thin nightgown, heedless of the cool morning mist that dampened the fabric and made it cling to her skin. As she walked, she stroked her distended belly, whispering and cooing odd nursery rhymes and disturbing lullabies.

“Run and catch, run and catch, the lamb is caught in the blackberry patch,” Astoria sang, her voice quite off-key. 

Lips pursed, Draco contemplated dragging her back inside where it was noticeably warmer, but the last time he’d tried to do such a thing, Astoria had thrown a fit of monumental proportions, nearly sending herself tumbling down the grand staircase. He closed his eyes, willing away the conjured images of a twisted body lying at the bottom of the steps. It wasn’t as if he were particularly sentimental about Astoria Malfoy, née Greengrass, but she _was_ carrying the Malfoy heir, and that made her valuable. 

From the moment Lucius had ordered Draco to marry and carry on the Malfoy name, Draco felt shackled. Oh, he knew he had no choice but to fulfil his father’s wishes—he was, after all, the only child in a pure-blood wizard family—but he had at least wanted the freedom to choose the woman he would marry. The problem was that most pure-blood families were quite… lacking when it came to genetic diversity. 

Case in point: Astoria Greengrass. 

Of course she was pure-blood; the Greengrass family was related to the Blacks, the Lestranges and even, distantly, a few Malfoys. In fact, she was so pure in wizard blood that Draco had thought her sterile for all the years they had tried, and failed, to have a child. Pressure from both families only added to the stressful situation, and when Astoria finally conceived after four years, she... well, she had _changed_. 

She would stare at nothing for hours, in those first weeks of her pregnancy, silence interspersed with muttering peculiar phrases. Draco remembered one incident wherein he had tried to touch her and she had jumped on his lap and started poking him with her fingers.

“I know you like a good wriggle, and a giggle, and a squiggle!” she had squealed.

The feverish light in her eyes had been unnerving. He’d given her a small smile and carefully removed her from his lap. She took no note of it and kept poking the cushions on the sofa, growling at them, hissing as if they had done her personal harm. Thank Merlin his mother had been alive then—she’d witnessed a portion of the scene and had calmly gathered Astoria up to lead her back to her chambers. 

But Draco’s mother was gone now, a victim of the Vanishing Sickness. Later that same day, his mother took Astoria to the solarium to have tea. According to Astoria, just as Narcissa took her first sip, the hand holding her cup disappeared. Bone china shattered on the floor. Before Astoria could cry out, Narcissa’s left leg and arm vanished as well. It took only twenty seconds for his mother to disappear in her entirety. 

At least, that’s what Astoria had said. Whether her account could be trusted or not was doubtful, as she then proceeded to tell Draco, "My mummy ate lemons. Raw. She said she loved how they made her mouth tingle. Maybe your mummy ate too many lemons and she burst into thousands of seeds.”

Draco had always had a hair-trigger temper, though it had matured to a certain degree over the years. At this utter nonsense, any rein he’d managed to put on it burned away in a flash of heated anger and he slapped Astoria, fury mingled with a strange delight in the handprint he left on her cheek. He expected her to cry. He even expected her to retaliate. Instead, she held her hand to her face as a small giggle bubbled past her lips. It soon turned into an unhinged cackle, one that sent chills over Draco’s flesh. 

He’d taken a few hesitant steps back, watching as Astoria slumped to the floor and, silent now, started braiding her long blonde hair. She smiled to herself and laughed softly. In that moment, Draco grasped the full significance of Andromeda’s warning from so long ago.

_Inbreeding... genetic instability... mutations... infertility… madness._

There would be an heir for the Malfoy family, to be sure—one likely to be as mad as Alastor Moody.

* * *

In her living room in East Sussex, Hermione Granger sat in her snuggler chair and stared out the double doors which afforded her a view of the countryside beyond her home. Twilight was falling, and every few minutes a nocturnal animal would wander by. One especially brave fox appeared on the stone step near the glass, sitting and raptly studying her. The longer it stayed, the more apprehensive she became. When it tilted its head as if asking a question, she looked away. There was soft yip, a rustle, and when she returned her gaze to the door, the creature was gone. She blew out a sigh of relief.

Hermione already heard bees talking to her; she didn’t need to add foxes to that as well. 

She was glad it was gone; the red fur reminded her of Ron’s particular shade of hair colour, and she really didn’t want to think about him at the moment. Or any moment. Two months after his death and she still didn’t know how to process everything that had happened. 

When she had Apparated back to the house Dumbledore had willed to her, the bees were gone. No miniscule corpses, no evidence of mites or invasion—not one remained. Initially, she had been quite happy with that—no more bees meant no more bloody prophecies, thank you very much. However, it wasn’t as simple as she’d hoped. 

The first sign of impending disaster was the flowers dying, or, more specifically, not reproducing. Blossoms withered away shortly after blooming, then the plants ceased to produce blooms of any sort. 

The second sign was the fruit from her pear and apple trees. Most of the bounty was diseased, immature and rotten. Not even magic could return the small orchard to its former glory. 

She’d even spread Thestral dung on the vegetable patch—guaranteed by Professor Sprout to work miracles—but when the dung resulted in less than spectacular yields, Hermione had had enough.

Reading everything she could lay her hands on that concerned bees, she found that she was greatly deficient when it came to practical knowledge, and learned also just how dependent the human race was upon them. It all boiled down to simple facts.

No bees—no cross-pollination. 

No cross-pollination meant no apples, almonds, pears, blackberries, cocoa, vanilla, a plethora of other fruits and a staggering amount of vegetables. 

No food… global starvation and famine. 

Granted, this was a larger, more wide-scale model of what could happen, but Hermione had already seen the devastating effects of a lack of bees on a smaller, personal level. She resolved to find or obtain more bees, even if it meant hearing their words buzz about in her mind. 

This was harder than it sounded. 

Her first venture sent her trekking in the forest adjacent to her estate. She found several hives, but most of them were swarming, producing angry susurrations that made no sense and instilled a great deal of fear in her. She was stung several times and decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. 

She decided, next, to purchase a colony from an apiary in another village. When they arrived, she placed them carefully in their new home, but they promptly disappeared the next day, never having spoken a word to her. 

Refusing to give up, she made a thorough search of the property and found a field that had what looked to be the remains of hive boxes surrounded by patches of scorched earth. The closer she came towards the hives, however, the more uncomfortable she became, sensing Dark magic roiling from the spot, so she opted to explore a field two acres away. The new ground was green, with bits of dried grass at the edges—perfect to start a new colony.

She decided to purchase another colony, this time from an apiary in Devon, but just as she was about to give the shipping instructions, the woman on the phone said abruptly, “You do realise it’s bad luck to sell bees, right?”

“What?” How had she never known this? “Why are you selling me a colony then?”

“Everyone must learn in their own time,” the beekeeper said. “If you want to know, you must listen.”

Hermione swallowed and closed her eyes. Listen. Listen to all the terrible things the bees wanted to tell her, to everything that was to come to pass. Could she do it? Could she listen, day after day, to all they had to tell her… in detail? Well, she hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor for no reason. She heaved a sigh. “All right. Tell me everything.”

In the next hour, Hermione learned things that she had never seen written in any book, wizard or Muggle.

_If someone sells their bees and receives payment into their hand, they have sold their luck with those particular bees. To sell bees properly, the buyer must lay the payment on a rock and the keeper must refrain from picking up the money until the bees have gone with their new owner._

_When a member of the family dies, the bee hives must be draped in black cloth to make sure they didn’t leave. If a family member of a beekeeper dies, the colony must be moved, or all the bees will die as well._

_If a bee flies in and out of the house, it brings good luck._

_Robbing bees during the new moon ensures they'll produce more honey next time._

_Bees should always be told of any major change in the beekeeper’s family—weddings, births, death. If they are not, they will leave._

These were just a few of the multitude of things she learned about bees. And while she’d finally been able to start her own colony—only a week ago, now—Hermione hadn’t heard even a faint whisper of anything resembling a prophecy from any of her bees, old or new, in the whole two months she’d been living in Sussex.

Thirsty, she made her way to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights. She stood at the sink and filled a glass with water, slowly drinking it down, looking out of the window above the tap. A slight movement to her right drew her attention, and her eyes focused on a single bee crawling slowly across the sill outside, stopping near the latch. 

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Though she hadn’t heard a word in what seemed like ages, was she prepared to listen if they should choose tonight to finally say something? Releasing a pent-up breath, she carefully opened the window, allowing the lone bee to meander inside. It buzzed its wings, as if in gratitude. 

_Weep for the fair-haired family, for they go to their eternal sleep!_

She gasped, both from the shock of actually hearing something and for the ominous information that was imparted. The bee, its mission completed, buzzed briefly and then flew out the window. Hermione quickly closed and latched the window with shaking hands. Fair-haired family? There was no one that matched that description in the area, and the only wizarding families she knew with blond hair were the Lovegoods and… the Malfoys. 

For all that Hermione was a cynic, she believed that things happened for a reason. The reason might not always be clear but, given time, the meaning would emerge. What was, what is, what shall be—pieces of a puzzle, falling into place. That the bees had chosen tonight to tell her of impending death meant that only one thing kept repeating in her mind: there was a purpose for this preternatural knowledge, and that reason could very possibly be that she was to prevent said deaths. 

Compelled by her conscience, Hermione penned a note to the Luna and Xenophilius, asking after their health and begging them to respond, no matter the time. Truth be told, she wasn’t all that worried about the Lovegoods; yes, they were eccentric and prone to explosions, but no malice was harboured against them. The Malfoys were another matter. As she only had one owl available, Hermione would have to make a trip to the Malfoy estate personally, and hope that if the prophecy concerned them, she would be able change the course of Fate. 

When she landed on the gravel in front of the massive gate guarding Malfoy Manor, only her knowledge of pure-blood practices kept her from rushing headlong past the wrought-iron palings. She would, she was sure, have been instantly killed—adding to the tally of the evening, if the screams resounding in the chill night air were anything to go by. 

Conjuring her Patronus, she was about to send it into the Manor when a lone figure stumbled past the front doors and collapsed at the bottom of the steps. She flicked her wand and let the otter fade, concentrating on getting to the person who was obviously injured. Unable to pass through the gate, Hermione focused on the figure on the ground and intoned, “ _Levicorpus_.”

The body was lifted by the ankle and quickly sailed through the air, over the top of the gate, until it hovered in front of Hermione. She muttered the counter-jinx and the body dropped to land at her feet. Cautiously, she knelt down and moved the blood-coated white hair away from the face of Draco Malfoy. 

Despite her history with Draco, she was horrified at the amount of blood seeping from a gash near his right temple. She healed it with a quick Episkey, but he remained unconscious. Curling her fingers around his wrist, she found his pulse—still alive, apparently. 

She couldn’t tell if the remainder of the blood was his or someone else’s. Either way, he needed immediate medical attention, so she Apparated them both to St. Mungo’s. There, she left him in the capable hands of the Medi-Witches, and returned to the Manor, to see if there were any way to find the rest of the Malfoy family. 

Upon landing on the gravel path, she searched for any breech in the defences, finding none. Frustration grew more as the minutes slipped away and she was unable to even _Accio_ the members of the Malfoy family out into the open. Her mounting anger spilled over when, in a fit of pique, she accidentally touched the invisible barrier and singed her palm. The sharp pain grounded her, brought her back to the moment she was quickly coming to understand as a lost cause. If there were more Malfoy members inside, possibly alive or dead, there was nothing she could do to help them, not without killing herself in the process.

It was a situation worthy of Schrödinger's cat. As she returned to St. Mungo’s, her only consolation was that at least she’d saved one person from the prophecy that had been thrust upon her. 

Even if the person she saved was Draco bloody Malfoy.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione sat in the lobby of St. Mungo’s, not completely sure why she’d stayed to inquire after Draco’s health. Maybe it was to tell him she had attempted to rescue the other members of his family from the Manor, but because of the restrictions, had been unable to—the burning welt on her palm was proof of that. When she’d returned to search for any remaining Malfoy relatives, she’d not found any and had been unable to Summon them if they were inside the Manor.

Perhaps it was to atone in some way for the guilt she felt at having knowledge of the Malfoys’ peril beforehand and not doing enough to prevent it. She knew Draco would probably blame her in every way possible for the tragedy and thus wanted… what? A chance to defend herself? 

Did she need to?

She glanced at the clock on the corridor wall, its soft ticking marking the minutes of the late hour. Wouldn’t it look odd to others if she were found to be here waiting for news of Draco Malfoy? What would Harry say? Merlin forbid, what would the Weasleys think? 

Just as she’d worked herself into a tizzy about the ramifications of being associated in any way with Malfoy, a Medi-witch approached her. “Mr. Malfoy is stabilised now. You may see him,” the woman said softly.

It was on the tip of Hermione’s tongue to politely decline, to tell the matron that she only needed to know if Draco would survive. But the look of undisguised pity on the witch’s face made her rethink her initial panic. 

She merely nodded and followed the Medi-witch down the corridor until they came to the last room on the right. The woman pushed the door open and motioned her in, leaving Hermione alone inside the dimly-lit area. The bed was surrounded by curtains, but a small lamp on a bedside table illuminated a prone figure upon the mattress and the outline of a chair off to the side. As quietly as she could, Hermione shifted the drape aside and sat, looking over Draco’s slumbering form. 

She could see several bruises in different stages of colour, as well as multiple cuts to his arms and face; a minty smell accompanied the sheen of dittany ointment liberally applied to facilitate rapid healing. His injuries seemed superficial, yet he remained unconscious. What had happened?

Hermione had known that Draco was married, and with a child on the way; it was all over the front pages of the _Daily Prophet_ with frequent regularity. So why had she found him stumbling out of the Manor, bloody and bruised, without the rest of his family? Where was Lucius? Draco’s wife and child? 

Lost in contemplation, Hermione barely heard the soft grunt coming from the bed.

“Granger,” Draco rasped. “What’re you doing here?”

She started for a moment then composed herself. “I…” Well, so much for being verbose. 

Draco frowned and tried to sit up, only to wince and fall back with a huff. “Why am I in hospital?” He waved off her answer. “Never mind; obvious from the pain.” He scanned the length of his arms, touching each fading mark, his eyes clouding over, as if he were remembering some horrible scene that he wanted to forget. His gaze darted to Hermione. “Usually you can’t keep your mouth shut. Should I be honoured you’ve decided to hold your tongue in my presence? Don’t tell me you think you could dare touch me while I was unconscious?”

Any pity or concern she felt at Draco’s circumstance evaporated with his snide words. “I’ll remember that the next time I find you bleeding and insensible on the ground.” She stood, glaring. 

“What do you mean?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“It’s hardly any of your business,” he snapped and turned away to stare out of the lone window in the room.

“Fine,” she retorted. 

She shoved the curtain away and stalked off, stopping just inside the door when she felt a pang of conscience at her own display of temper. Why was she letting him rile her this much? He was Draco Malfoy, the insufferable pure-blood wizard that had made her life nearly unbearable. Of course he always knew where and when to nettle her into reacting; he’d been raised to goad those he considered inferior, just because he could. It wasn’t necessarily his fault he was an arrogant prick, though; he came by that genetically.

But something in his defensive attitude struck a chord within her—would she be as stand-offish if someone were to ask about Ron? Odds were that she would. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Draco was watching her intently. It was clear he was nervous, pensive about her presence. Then she realise that he’d never been told anything about his family. He was injured, alone and probably worried sick about his wife, though he’d never show it.

“I don’t know what has happened to bring you to this point, Draco Malfoy,” she said quietly. “But you have my sincerest sympathies.” 

Ignoring his shout demanding that she explain herself, Hermione left the room and St. Mungo’s behind.

* * *

Three days later, Hermione stood in her kitchen stirring blackberries, lemon juice, cinnamon and the first batch of honey from her colony in a saucepan. One of the hidden rooms the skeleton keys had unlocked held a small library, including recipe books that featured honey as the main ingredient. When the smell of burnt sugar assaulted her nose, however, she realised her thoughts were fixed elsewhere, refusing to be swayed.

She’d read that morning in the _Prophet_ that Draco’s entire family had perished at the hands of his mad wife, their child as well. Based on the details in the paper, the scene inside the Manor had been horrific. Draco’s wife had gone into an early labour and her mind had finally given way; she’d lost all control of her mental faculties and tried to rid herself of the babe. Thankfully, the specifics were vague. Lucius had apparently tried to prevent her, but had died by her hand in the process. Draco had been at the Ministry; alerted by a house-elf that something was dreadfully wrong, he’d Floo’d home to find his father dead and his wife trying to kill their child. He’d immediately had to defend himself from hexes and curses flung his way by said insane spouse. By the time Draco had stumbled out of the Manor that night, Lucius, Astoria and their child—a boy, stillborn—were all dead.

Hermione removed the saucepan from the cooker, placed it in the sink and braced herself against the counter, staring out of the window. Her mother often said that things happened for a reason, but that the reason might not always be clear. That, in time, the meaning would emerge—what was, what is, what shall be. As a child, Hermione likened the sage advice to pieces of a puzzle falling into place. This time, however, the puzzle was not worth completing. No parent, regardless of who they were, should have to bury their child. 

A sudden rap on her front door caused her to take out her wand and cautiously move towards the front of the house. Except for the odd social call from Harry and Ginny, Hermione had never received visitors—her residence was Unplottable, with Harry as the Secret Keeper. Just as she was about to cast a Disillusionment Charm, an unmistakable voice sounded from the other side of the door.

“Granger, I know you’re in there.”

Shock and trepidation warred within her chest. Why was Draco here? How had he found her? When she got her hands on Harry Potter, it would be debatable whether he could ever father any more children.

“It’s important,” Draco said, his voice raised in irritation. “Trust me, kissing Potter’s arse is not even on my list of things to do in this life, but I need to speak to you.”

She snorted, imagining the things Harry had made Malfoy do in order to find out where she lived. “Give me a moment,” she called out.

Glancing in the mirror that was part of the entryway coatrack and bench, she supposed she looked presentable enough. She ignored the momentary impulse that she needed to tidy her appearance for someone who had never thought much of her to begin with, and opened the door.

She cautiously made her way to stand just outside the entrance. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you criticise my inability to hold my tongue just a few days ago?” Hermione watched as a retort died on his lips. 

He opened his mouth and closed it several times before looking away. Surprised at his reticence, she studied him at length. 

Draco’s grey eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot—either he’d been crying in the not too distant past, or he was severely lacking when it came to restorative slumber. She guessed it was both. The shoulder-length hair he’d sported earlier was now cut to resemble the style he’d had during their school years—it had the effect of making him look impossibly young, even though he was dressed in mourning robes. She was about to remark that he needed a few good meals when he turned his gaze back to her.

“I’m not sure why you were near the Manor... that night,” he said, “but I’d like to… thank you, for bringing me safely to St. Mungo’s.”

She wasn’t about to tell him how she’d known his family would be in trouble; she hoped he’d simply accepted that she happened to be in Wiltshire that particular night. “You’re welcome,” she said softly, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. When his stare became too intense, she dropped her gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, but I was—”

“Prevented by the barrier,” he finished. “It wouldn’t have mattered. They were already…”

Neither of them bothered to complete the thought. 

Draco shifted back and forth nervously. “The funeral is tomorrow,” he finally said.

“Ah. The _Prophet_ hadn’t mentioned that. I’m surprised Rita Skeeter hasn’t badgered the information out of you.”

A hint of a smirk made his lips twitch. “Rumour has it she’s a half-blood, and since the funeral is on Malfoy property…”

Hermione snorted. “She’s tenacious enough to try and breach the barrier if it means an enchantingly nasty story.” She turned the now-scarred palm of her hand towards Draco. “But she might think twice once she actually touches the gate.”

“Three drops of Romanian Longhorn dragon’s blood will remove the mark,” he said, his demeanour clearly uncomfortable.

She studied him for a long moment then looked at her hand. “No, I think I’ll leave it; it’s not painful. Besides, it reminds me that I was stronger than whatever tried to hurt me.”

“If that’s how you feel,” Draco muttered. He cleared his throat and straightened his spine. “I’d like to formally invite you to the funeral, and since I’m requesting your presence, the barrier will pose no threat.”

Her jaw must have gone slack, for he gave her a disgusted look. “What?” she managed. 

“Hadn’t realised you’d gone feeble-minded in your isolation, Granger.”

She pursed her lips in annoyance. “I’m trying to wrap my mind around the fact that you just invited a Mudblood to your deceased family’s funeral services.”

His fist clenched and unclenched as red tinged his pale cheeks. “The only family that I’m burying with any reverence will be my son, Granger. I hadn’t thought you’d be prejudiced against an innocent.” Draco’s brief flash of temper deflated in the next moment. “Sorry. I only meant to extend my gratitude for saving my life.” With a brief nod, he stepped away and headed towards the gravel road that led to her house. 

“Malfoy!”

Draco came to a halt and spared her a glance over his shoulder. “What?”

She bit her bottom lip, weighing her options. “Inviting me to this funeral wouldn’t be in retaliation for Skeeter trying to manipulate her way in, would it? The ultimate snub?”

He tilted his head to the sky then turned and gave her a smirk. “Partly.”

Unbidden, she returned a smile. “Send me the details.”

“Expect an owl,” he said, his expression now sober. He remained in the middle of the lane for a long moment, staring at her, as if trying to reconcile a painful conflict within himself, then he turned and Disapparated.

* * *

Hermione checked and rechecked her attire several times before she gave up the effort as hopeless. It wasn’t as if she were trying to impress anyone in the wizarding world. But then this was a pure-blood event… and she’d been invited. Her. Cold sweat prickled her skin. Merlin, even if they didn’t hex her the moment she set foot on the grounds, something was bound to happen before the day was through. 

When she arrived, she found she was able to pass the barrier—thankfully Draco hadn’t rescinded his offer—but she cast a Disillusionment Charm anyway, not fully trusting the wizards and witches present to keep their opinions—and wands—to themselves. She discreetly followed a couple that were making their way down a path that edged the perimeter of the Manor proper. Once she rounded the corner, she had to stifle a gasp at the sheer magnitude of the Malfoy family crypt.

The mausoleum was round and nearly as large as the mansion, with massive _verde remeggiato_ green marble pillars that supported a high dome. The dome itself looked to be black marble as the base and frame, with stained-glass depictions of the Malfoys’ lengthy past as the skylight. A significant portion of the rotunda was left open to the elements, to allow for scenery. The rest was filled with crypts, tombs and effigies of ancestors. 

A few moments after arriving, Hermione was heartily glad that of the fresh breeze that drifted through the overly crowded mausoleum. Too much magic in one place, strong magic at that—it would have been enough to make even the Dark Lord nervous. Hoping to avoid any confrontations, she firmly wedged herself into a darkened niche and waited.

The funeral had all the traditional trappings; people were weeping, the coffins covered with orchids and lilies. Draco stood near the dais, his hand resting on the smallest coffin, his face stoic. His eyes, however, searched the audience. Was he looking for her? Taking a chance, Hermione briefly lowered the charm when his gaze came near her position, allowing him a glimpse of her before she cast the charm again. His attention remained fixed on the spot as he nodded imperceptibly, then let his gaze drop to sweep the crowd once more. 

Words were said—mostly disingenuous attempts at consolation for the young widower and orphan—and Hermione observed that Draco’s thumb idly stroked his son’s coffin during the whole of the service. No tears filled his eyes, but the hollow look grew deeper the longer the Ministry representative droned on. 

An hour later, and everyone had apparently deemed that enough tears had been shed, enough meaningless platitudes had been foisted upon Malfoy, and they had better things to do with their time. When she and Draco were the only people left in the mausoleum, Hermione removed the charm and rolled her shoulders to shake off the draining effects of keeping a spell maintained for so long. 

Draco still hadn’t moved from his spot near the tiny casket and she wondered if his knees had locked to keep him standing. She slowly approached him until she was able to sit in one of the chairs situated closest to the dais. 

“He was to be named Scorpius,” Draco murmured, his eyes never moving from his son.

“Very appropriate for a Malfoy heir,” Hermione said with a slight nod. She was about to add that Skeeter would’ve killed to get that tidbit of information when she heard a sound that caused her to gasp.

Buzzing.

She knew Draco’s attention had shifted to her, but she couldn’t help the tension that flowed through her as she watched a lone bee fly into the mausoleum. Her stress changed to confusion, though, when it flew straight towards the coffins instead of towards herself.

For several minutes it buzzed around the flowers, dipping into the luscious blooms, until finally it landed on the smallest coffin. Hermione followed the insect’s every movement, watching as the bee once more ascended to make large circles around the tiny casket and then slowly, very slowly, flew over to Draco.

It circled his head and hovered for a couple of seconds, and Hermione was surprised at Draco’s indulgence; he didn’t even twitch when the bee flew close to his nose and hovered once more. He stared at it as if hypnotised, until it bobbed once and flew out into the waning afternoon light. 

Hermione released the breath she’d been holding. “Malfoy?”

He blinked and then pinned her with a stare. “Do you know what that was about, Granger?”

She mentally berated herself—she’d forgotten to inform her bee colony of the Malfoy family’s passing. It was probable that when she returned home her bees would have swarmed, and she’d have to start all over again. Groaning in frustration, she rubbed her temples as she recalled something the beekeeper in Devon had told her earlier. “In times past, it was said that bees were a young person's soul and they flew from the mouth of the deceased upon their death.”

“Are you saying that was the soul of my son?” Draco bit out harshly. 

“I don’t know, Draco,” she said. She dropped her head in her hands. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Unlikely.” His voice was closer. “I don’t believe for one minute that little Miss know-it-all leaves any book unread. You know _something_. Tell me.”

She raised her head and glared at him. “Being snippy with me won’t induce me to tell you anything, Malfoy.” 

He arched a brow, waiting. 

Sighing heavily, she stood and began to pace. “What if you knew, beyond a doubt, what was going to happen tomorrow?”

His answer was instantaneous. “I’d become obscenely wealthy by using whatever future information I could.”

“Of course you would,” Hermione muttered. “But what if the information wasn’t something you could use for gain? What if it was more like telling you whether you'd be wealthy or poor, a hero or a villain, lucky in love or unlucky in life? What would you do?” He looked poised to answer, but she didn’t give him the chance. “What if you found you had the power to change things? People, events, maybe even your own life? Would you even know where to start?” She shook her head and looked at the small coffin. “Maybe you can't know… until it happens.”

Silence filled the chamber. Hermione glanced at Malfoy. He was paler than usual and he swallowed several times before speaking. 

“Life is no fancy tale, Granger,” he said finally. “We’re all subject to the Fates, if anything; a posh upbringing doesn’t guarantee a splendid life. I’m a prime example of that.” 

A pang of sympathy fluttered in Hermione’s chest as she watched Draco turn to his son’s coffin and place a gentle hand on the lid. “I used to think life was like a book,” she said quietly. “A beginning, a middle, and maybe a satisfying end. But life doesn't always come with a set of instructions. In fact, most of the time it just comes—every morning, like clockwork. It's there when you open your eyes, and it's still there, even if you’re not.” She moved to stand opposite Draco, his son in between them. “I think the trick is to assume your life is going to work out.” Risking a hex, she placed her hand over his, her thumb rubbing his trembling fingers. “Of course, it never does, so you do the next best thing: you take it one disaster at a time.”

His eyes met hers, then slid away. “My whole life has been one bloody disaster after another.” 

“It's easy to be cynical,” she mused. “Not everyone is a paragon of virtue.”

Draco removed his hand from beneath hers and moved away. “Dumbledore tried to help me, once.”

Even though she’d heard the story from Harry, Hermione was keen to know Malfoy’s version of those events, so she remained quiet. 

“He told me he once knew a boy who made all the wrong choices, but he never told me what happened to him.” Draco glanced at his son’s coffin. “Maybe if he had, things might’ve been different.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Because she couldn’t ignore someone when they were in pain, Hermione walked over to Draco and laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “It matters, now more than ever. You have a chance to make choices as _you_ see fit, not because something is expected of you. You can build a life with someone who can find that cynical heart inside you, no matter how deeply you’ve buried it. Use your instincts—it’s not always easy telling the good from the bad.”

“I’ll definitely choose someone who isn’t completely insane, though I’m not sure who would have me at this point.” He squeezed her hand once in return and stepped away.

His dismissal made her feel like she’d overstayed her welcome. With a curious ache in her chest, she made her way towards the exit of the mausoleum, pausing at the doorway. “Draco?”

Malfoy looked up at her. 

“Learn to count the living, not the dead.” She smiled briefly and left.

* * *

As she’d feared, when she returned home, her entire colony had swarmed, leaving the hives empty. After the emotional and physical drain of the last few days, she felt like razing the ground as she’d seen in the other field and leaving the estate to rot. It was a near thing, but at the last moment, her wand was stayed by the very thing that had frustrated her no end: bees.

A small cluster of fifteen to twenty bees gathered near her, landing on the newly emptied hives. A multitude of whispers washed over her as she heard them ‘discussing’ the location and Hermione’s temperament. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell them to sod off—she’d find a colony that wasn’t so sensitive, thank you very much—when she recalled the parting words of the beekeeper in Devon.

_Honey bees will not do well in a quarrelsome family, nor do they like to hear foul language—they prefer to converse politely and quietly._

Sighing in resignation, she greeted the bees and asked if they would stay. Please. After much debate—two of the drones considered Hermione’s hairstyle rather dubious—they agreed to grace her with their presence.

Four months later, they were still there. She made it a regular habit to tell them of all the goings on in the wizarding world, as well as the Muggle, leaving nothing to chance. In turn, they supplied her with honey that had people clamouring to purchase multiple jars at a time, beeswax that made the best candles, and of course prophecies of all sorts, most of them incomprehensible. The last had been two weeks ago— _The white dragon seeks his treasure!_ —and she was still trying to decipher its context. 

The colony also offered an odd sort of companionship. Of course she still had visits from Harry and Ginny… and now little James, but they had their own lives. And she had hers.

She hadn’t heard from Malfoy since his son’s funeral, and nary a word had been mentioned in the _Prophet_. It was as if Draco had completely disappeared. She’d asked the bees about it once, where he might have gone, but they remained resolutely silent on the subject. Though she hadn’t expected any sort of reciprocation on his part—she’d never been part of his social circle—she had hoped to at least develop a friendship with him. 

The thoughts were pushed aside when it came time to harvest the honey and wax. The day dawned dreary and wet—not exactly conducive to lulling the colony to sleep with a smoker. But it was the appropriate day and she refused to risk having the colony swarm just because she didn’t want to drag her arse from the bed. Just as she slipped her wide-brimmed hat with netting onto her head, there came a knock at her door.

Sure that she looked utterly ridiculous in her outfit, Hermione held her wand aloft and cautiously opened the door. Her heart rose into her throat at the sight of her visitor.

Draco Malfoy, much the worse for wear and sodden to the bone, stood on her stoop, fidgeting. He wore a wan smile that morphed rapidly into a look of horror as he took in her getup. 

“I don’t think I want to know,” he muttered.

She rolled her eyes and opened the door wider to allow him inside. He entered and stood uncertainly in her modest foyer, sparing a glance here and there, taking in her house. “Cozy,” he offered.

“This forced politeness is killing you, isn’t it?” she chuckled as she removed her hat and baggy white uniform. 

He watched her carefully. “I wouldn’t say that. More like I’m out of practice.” 

“Hmm, I wondered why I hadn’t seen your name in the _Prophet_ lately.” She folded the clothing and laid it on the entryway bench for later use. “Where’ve you been?”

“A lot of places; everywhere and nowhere,” he said evasively. “Following your advice.”

“What advice?”

He shrugged. “Making my own choices. Mostly frivolous ones up until this point.”

A squeezing sensation wrapped itself around her heart as she thought of Draco telling her that he’d found someone that could see past his transgressions. She viciously willed it away. “A few frivolous decisions every now and then are good for the spirit,” she managed. “I remember spending an exorbitant amount of Galleons on three bottles of Sleekeazy just before the Yule Ball in Fourth Year.”

“Only three?” he chided with a smirk. “I would’ve guessed it’d take at least five.”

“Shut up.”

He arched a brow. “Hit a nerve, have I?”

She crossed her arms defensively. “Was there something you wanted, Malfoy? Or did you just come here to gloat at my fashion inadequacies?”

His attempt at a smile faded. “Sorry. Old habits. It’s easier to be on the offensive than to—”

“Let down your guard,” she said.

“Right.” 

The awkward silence grew heavier. Draco kept glancing between Hermione and the door. Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something under his breath.

“What?” Hermione could hear the softest whispers from her bees, but Malfoy’s mumbled words were barely audible.

“I’m acting like a bloody idiot, standing here, debating whether to ask if you wanted to visit the Manor… or not.” He must have seen her look of utter surprise, as he went on hastily. “It’s just that I found an acre or two that I’d never known about—apparently, Father kept a hunting box deep in the forest—and I was reliably told by a local beekeeper that it was a prime location for an apiary. She told me that you were the expert, that I should consult you on how to go about setting up my colony.” 

She stared, nonplussed. “Beekeeper in Devon, right?” He nodded and Hermione laughed nervously, remembering the last prophecy the bees whispered to her. _The white dragon seeks his treasure!_

After years of hearing bees tell her of future events, Hermione knew with certainty that her future lay along the same path as Draco’s. So instead of wibbling over whether she was making the right decision or not, she seized her future with both hands. That was the secret, when you got right down to it—treat every day like it was your last, or your best.

“Let me gather my things and I’ll meet you at the Manor, all right?”

“I can wait for you,” Draco said with a great deal of conviction. 

She smiled shyly, unable to stop the fierce blush that stole up her neck and into her cheeks. “I won’t be long.”

As she made her way up the staircase, she heard him softly say, “Good. I’ve waited long enough.”


End file.
